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Weirdo Magnet

Artist Stinkin Rich/Buck 65
Album Weirdo Magnet
Song The Bassment

Got this from here.

Are you ready?

The Bassment, the transmission - Critical, consult a physician
Before you try to knock me outta position.
Diggin' in the top secret vaults where the vinyl's stored
To make you snap your neck so hard you break your spinal cord
The push-button DJs be getting all emotional
Because they going broke, but my copies are promotional.
You never see a wack piece of wax move in this direction
Heavy on the backspins to satisfy the disc-connection
Kids like gangsta rap, 'cause they desire violence
Others wanna hook up with the hoes, like fire hydrants
Few know the problems that the DJ uniquely faces
Even the troopers that tune in on a weekly basis
Companies act like they try to keep hardcore

Language Arts (1997)

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Loose Teeth
Album: Language Arts
Typed by:

I'm on a mission to slaughter and smother
and then dispose of your daughter and mother,
'cause it's my lot in life,
I used to love you but you turned out to be a rotten wife.
You see, I was born to march forth to harsh north
and spread the word and transcribe pathetic testimony.
However, most men are dumb instead of deaf and the rest are phony,
sellin' snake oil, yellin' "make money money."
I made the same mistake once but hindsight is 20/20.
So I'm movin' on and you're the one wearin' bandages,
cryin' to your friends about the unfair advantages
in pig latin combined with CB lingo
like akerbreak 1-9 and playin' TV bingo,
or else it's Super Mario hooked up to the stereo,
got a kitted up Camaro with the system boomin' Aerosmith,
Donny Osmond family and Partridges and Beatles
instead of rockin' it the right way with cartridges and needles.
Me and my DJ critically intersect
and tell the truth even if it's politically incorrect.
Worship pagan idols like Peter Cottontail,
the God-forsaken, I'd sooner see a cheetah rot in jail
with new advances and methods to learn of,
instead I improve on the original like the Return of the Jedi.
We can start a buzz like a swarm of bumble bees
but all you hear is blowin' wind and all you see is tumbleweeds.
I'm not fallin', so stop shot callin' and settle back
'cause that's a classic case of the pot callin' the kettle black.
The latest fashions are too much so I'm instead wearin'
an outfit with goggles resembling the Red Barron.
It takes more than a mask and make-up to hide insanity,
soon you will be judged with the sins of pride and vanity. 

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Totem's Pole
Album: Language Arts

This is for us, us, and not for anybody else.
And this is for us, not for the underground hip hop fans, nah, this is for us.
This ain't for b-boys, rap writers,
DJs, and MCs, or any of them, 'cause ah..this is for us.
Not for the vinyl buyin' break beat collectors
with dirty fingertips and notebooks, this is for us.
And this is for us, not for the students and historians either,
'cause this is for us, the arch,
Buck 65, the hacks, the slam, DJ Critical,
stinkin' rich, Uncle Climax, Achilles, Jesus Murphy, and Johnny Rockwell.
This is for us, not for Canadians and not for Americans.
Not even for Earth, this is only for us.
This isn't for you, this is for us, this is for us.
This isn't for sale and damn sure ain't free, this is for us.
This is for us, not for anybody else, this is for us.

Mix and match some fix it tracks with clits and cracks,
shit's like burning candles, just a whole lot of wicks and wax.
And I dont give a f' for battles between the coast guard,
I'm sayin' both beyond some weak ass shit for the most part.
Ya take a whole lot of groups that are mostly phonies such as
seventy-five to eighty percent of the shit that Tony touches.
Sometimes I want to cry because I'm sick of this daily vomit,
and somethin' dope comes along about as often as Haley's comet.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Frame and Fork
Album: Language Arts
Typed by:

Cracked foundations leak, it's a fact,
that attracts rats, mold grows and that shit is wack,
'cause like I need a space that's commendeerial and chill for me to write
but we need the raw materials to build and the right
mixture of light fixtures and extra large windows of opportunity,
when those of our community come to pay a visit.
You treat it properly while you break down the science of the property value.
The building's sick and dying with a first class infection,
if the health board people come, we'll never pass inspection.
The vinyl side's been neglected, fallin' off, broken,
let me do the talkin' 'cause I'm tall and soft spoken.
The buck 65 interior design should be simple and elegant,
superior to the minds of the criminal element,
unless you include graff writers,
but still guys are markin' places for parkin' spaces
before the floor is reinforced, not even to mention boards
are hammered in wrong and with this tangle of extension cords,
the next thing you know, the roof will be on fire,
killed in the smoke and the flames then engulf the entire building.
The carpet just sold that wants the ability
'cause they must first live up to their responsibilty
of keepin' the premises safe from any nemesis
or foreigner that would only paint himself into a corner.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Grindstone Cowboy
Album: Language Arts

Little DJ Critical, the analytical,
will ridicule and make the other DJs sick 'cause he's infectious.
He doesn't wear gloves but he gets wreckless
on the one and two and eats cereal for breakfast.
With the tricks and pieces that your tapedeck need,
scratchin' and cuttin' at a breakneck speed.
When he cracks the wrist like a hip hop activist,
he gets better 'cause he practices,
all the time, so let's get mac to this.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Eye Make-Up Excuses
Album: Language Arts

"Oh no, it's them two shit talking thin pricks.
The Sebutones, they're freakier than wild animals in skin flicks.
With their platform shoes and they also have gold teeth,
the battle-axe styles, the calculator motif.
The cadillacs with backwards hats, they can't be nice,
in fact, I heard that Buck 65 might even be the Anti-Christ.
And Sixtoo, he practices witchcraft, collects crystals,
and back in the early 70s, was in the Sex Pistols,
but they kicked him out 'cause he was always buggin' and dissin',
and Sid caught him with that Nancy girl, huggin' and kissin',
and holdin' hands in the rain, and doin' shows with Poison,
sold cans at the merchandise counter and everything."
The DJ runs around tellin' people that I'm sinister,
and wishes that Darth Vader was the prime minister,
and I even heard that one of them can't wait until the day the world ends,
and until then, his hobby's gonna be stealing people's girlfriends.
And he said he wasn't kiddin', he's got a dozen styles of rhymin',
and keeps another dozen hidden.
They throw fruit and vegetables around so dodge the lemons
and hot peppers 'cause one throws harder than Roger Clemens.
I think they might be from the future,
got a casual collection of styles like new Prada.
And offer us a choice of season,
daytime or evening wear. Please listen to the voice of reason.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Seventeen
Album: Language Arts

This one's goin' out to all of those that don't know me,
yo my name is Rich DeFry and I got bigger fish to fry.
I got to pay the rent and go to work,
brush my teeth and rake the leaves,
and buy some parts for my bike. This ain't the land of make-believe.
I know that burnin' bridges down will never see the end of traffic,
still I think we're representin' different sets of demographics.
I mean, for starters right, I finished university
and in the end I hope that you appreciate diversity.
Universally, I keep the ill shit in my arsenal.
I hate R&B but it ain't nothin' personal.
Yaknahmsayin'? For example,
not everyone out there likes to organize confusion either, so what?
The point is there's lots of different ways for beats and rhymes to go,
and I left the playground shit behind a long time ago.
I've over twenty-five and ain't nobody stuck with me,
so take it or leave it man, why you wanna fuck with me?
It makes no sense, unless of course it's jealousy,
from disconnected MCs that ain't doin' as well as me.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Gauze
Album: Language Arts
Typed by:

Meanwhile, back at the command central circus,
doctors are exposing a man's ventral surface to a medicated agent
to purify the soul of this dedicated patient,
laying on the nekked table.
He works for a record label and wears sandals with tubesocks,
we got him tied face down, hooked up to the fuse box
with insulated cables. Ambulances cruise blocks
to find any kind of volunteers and crack addicts that attracts static.
It's to determine how the effects of famine delays aggression,
and we tantalize 'em with salmon fillets
and analyze the results in a bowl that's glass,
we've placed the brain and it smells like a poll cat's ass.
We take a group of MCs that are a run of the mill,
if the first one doesn't survive, probably one of them will,
the odds are, is to figure out how much the others need
to first readjust the focus and then to change the shudder speed.
It's the ultimate procedure that we use to determine rank,
we got a state of the art computer system and access to a Sherman tank.
You shouldn't be afraid to ask, we cut 'em with a blade of grass,
you need a certain grade to pass or else you will be layed to pass.
Then we take a duo or a group and a loaf of bread
and we let them attack one another until both are dead.
Two copies for the DJ to, uh, break it on the cartridge,
but if the record skips, he'll have to take it on the arches.
I got private plans for the saliva glands.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Bush Pilot
Album: Language Arts

We should take a break from the computers and programs,
and swing it back to my place for hooters and slow jams
for once. I'm the type of guy who'll surpise you with a cool disguise
and act out fantasies with dialogue and school supplies.
South American tough nuts to crack open, but I'm determined, slim chance
to make it past the German implants and you-know-whats.
Private parts, I'm hoping that you do go nuts and push while it
happens baby, 'cause I'm the bush pilot,
be the one to tell your friends that you blew the stallion,
wearing nothing but my Zulu medalion,
and then maybe a pineapple sliced wedge between the labia and clitoris.
Gave her a taste of the bitteress flavor in purple rain,
blues and the red whites, me and you can spend nights
alone in the dark while I'm starin' at your headlights and highbeams.
In my dreams with city streets and crosswalks,
pedestrian traffic, and my finger in the saucebox.
Graphic with lost socks and underwear, a thousand kinds of Calvin Kleins,
I caught you in the backroom with attachments for the vacuum.
The syncronized swim team and punk rockers,
anorexic runway models with shrunk knockers,
and all of them, with wide legs, the fried eggs and honey mustard,
I'm eatin' out instead of buying groceries 'til the money's busted.
'Cause I don't care, snackin' on your muffin, chewin' one more time,
like nothin' doin', it feels hot where the sun don't shine.
The way I blew your mind, you are not prepared to handle facts
in my command performance while I'm drippin' melted candle wax.
Inside the beaver, got you open like a wide receiver,
I like the way she licks behind the back when she's sixty-ninin'.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Obstacle Course
Album: Language Arts

If you want to live, follow me, I got the strategy and tactics,
The Kingdom is fallen to the tragedy of wackness,
but as long as I have fingers that's prehensile and opposable,
then I'll be using pencils and disposable
pens or whatever it takes for me to document the chronicle,
and convert these crusaders from tragic back to comical.
Then we'll have to stage a cou or else we should convince
the prince that instead of using instraments,
the DJs should provide the drums.
Besides the fact that no one's gonna recognize the sovreignty,
as long as the existing system keeps us all in poverty.
We must control the population just like those in Asia do,
and cloning must be outlawed or else it'll be deja vu
every two minutes. You wanna talk about repetitive?
Let the shephards count the sheep,
we'll have a stronger acting sedative 'til all of us are off to sleep,
so let's wage war and transfer
power back to us and don't take no for an answer.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Beauty is Skill
Album: Language Arts

I say tomato (toh-may-toh) so instead you say (toh-mah-toh),
and I say light-skinned but you say mulatto.
I don't know, I prefer to go straight off the chest,
ya suck certain judges' dicks and then you paid off the rest,
with your bootleg apparell and counterfeit poetic license,
your neck's too skinny to cope this pathetic crisis.
Instead of flippin' the script, I toss the fader,
and throw it back and forth like I'm playin' hot potato.
God, mind, and body parts so bear witness devils,
and put on a pair of shorts to compare fitness levels.
Old school b-boys request the response,
so I lifted the veil in the fiesta resistance.
I lie when I'm rappin', I tell the truth when I'm cuttin',
girls around the way say I'm cute as a button,
and it's him, Johnny Rockwell, male model, see him next,
freestylin' on the microphone or on a BMX,
knowin' the length and not crashin' half way.
I'm chillin' and coolin' at the fashion cafe,
eatin' a salad and drinking mad champaign,
and signin' the deal for the Missoni ad campaign.
It's just a day in the life of a pretty face,
sometimes in business, these people with their shitty tastes
of a high heel shoe in their mouth with a foot in it,
as for me, I got money and that's where I'm puttin' it.
Where my mouth is, you know the science.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Jetta '86
Album: Language Arts

I've been droppin' jewels that are worth their price
since before the birth of Christ and the virgin Mary and Joseph.
I submerge and bury adversaries in the soil,
or they get stuck and plastered in hot tar and feathers,
that'll teach the fuckin' bastard to think again
before he attempts to invade our scene.
We got them satellites ya know, I saw you on the radar screen
with body heat, 'cause of all the members of the hordes followin'.
Instead of breathin' fire, try sword swallowin'.
The reader's digest and shit out all that worthless garbage,
you wouldn't be so prodical if you were more methodical.
Meticulous details measured by with width of eyelashes,
it may seem ridiculous, reduction to dry ashes.
Everybody has a serial number
that gets stored in a box of material lumber.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: G.C. Luther
Album: Language Arts
Typed by:

Read the reviews, how can you say that rookie's butter?
He's just another piece of ginger bread from the cookie cutter.
Abide by the laws of architectural evolution
to build a spark of sexual revolution.
I mean grabbin' the mic outta my hands when you can't talk right
is kinda like bringin' a gun to the cockfight.
It's breakin' the rules that are made to be played by,
forsaking the tools of the trade and they may die.
So use it or lose it as with prostate cancer prevention,
who you frontin' for anyway? Answer the question.
You're seeking solutions amidst a bunch of arroneous junk,
you oughta check Roland Kirk, Thelonius Monk or Mingus.
The time of the month and I'm performin' cunnilingus
and droppin' science 'cause it's heavy and my name is butter fingers,
and with so much mediocrity, the world's a shitty place,
where a boy's just a dick and where a girl's a pretty face.
Where mother fought father and then brother fought daughter,
and everyone's gettin' burned by boilin' hot water.
So what's the response when a kid wants to flaunt
and show off for his friends so he can act nonchalant?
I avoid usin' words like worry or nervous
and deliver the goods like a currier service.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Sick Stew
Album: Language Arts
Typed by:

With the force of a collision and the flames of a bonfire
rages the yin and yang, my right hand von squire.
Snake brother, consimate professional take cover,
confessional, the seeker, four elements, the make-lover.
Rhythm method, shuns irrelevance with the quickness and discipline,
strive through the sickness and health.
You see what happens when a wandering soul gets stuck and freezes,
the mind diseases and is left to consider fuckin' jesus,
but as long as we have daylight to guide us and juices to drink
for the body and the brain has excuses to think,
until the glass shatters while the scents of Windex linger
dissin' punks for the record with a mangled index finger.
Packin' fans up in the spot with hoes and clappin' hands
or else he's at the hardware store and probably rackin' cans
and while Sixtoo be out bombin' on the lines of Locomotion,
I try to teach him what I know about the kinds of show promotion.
The return of the listener teaches on the topic of female sex
instead of dissin' at peaches, pay attention to details next.
Having no equipment is a hassle
but he can pull a couple thousand dollars out his asshole.
Drinking shitty liquor, talkin' like a city slicker,
just a day in the life of the big titty gripper.
You're gettin' clobbered by Robert, the diligent never swingin' with chicks who
only want a quick screw and nothin' else, it's Sixtoo.

Vertex (1999)

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Sounds from the Back of the Bus
Album: Vertex

I hide behind this curtain listening to whispers with my fingers crossed.
I got 2 little sisters to think about in the event that ghosts appear.
I'm told I'm supposed to hear a signal when the coast is clear.
But I'm alone in this room and it scares me to start,
I'm having second thoughts and it tears me apart.
Holdin' on to my breath for dear life, feeling confused yet
still enthusiastic about the sound of music.
Join me please.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: The Centaur
Album: Vertex/Synesthesia (Remix Version)

Most people are curious, some wanna get dirt on The Centaur.
I'm famous, I walk around with no shirt on.
The easiest way would be for you to lie face down.
I'm a man, but I'm built like a horse from the waist down.
People are afraid of me but act like they love me.
Feast your eyes upon my nudity.
I am Beauty and The Beast.
I have plenty to say but nobody listens
because my cock is so big and the end of it glistens,
so I'm famous for it.
"Freaky" is what everyone's name is for it.
Sure, it's larger than yours, I'm a Centaur for Chrissakes!
I like to eat rice cakes and listen to classical music.
I'm told passion is my specialty but really I'm old-fashioned.
I'm quite well-built, as far as physiques go,
so people seem to think that I belong in a freak show.
They want to have pictures taken constantly, assumin'
that my sex drive is three times that of a normal human.
Asking silly questions like I'm their personal mentor.
All they care about is my big dick because I'm the centaur.
The porno industry wants to pay me lots of money
to appear in books and movies 'cause they think I look funny,
but I'm lookin' for true love, not groupies and freaks.
More than a huge cock, I have a complicated mind.
I'm not the favorite kind of companion for the average person.
Sometimes things start well but eventually worsen
when sex becomes a problem,
or else they're unimpressed with the attention that you get being a Centaur's love interest.
You don't care about my next life,
just my ex-wife and the intimate details of our sex life.
Most people are curious. Some wanna get dirt on The Centaur.
I'm famous, I walk around with no shirt on.
The easiest way would be for you to lie face down.
I'm a man, but I'm built like a horse from the waist down.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Driftwood
Album: Vertex

I got dibs on drums and first say on the mic,
rule number 6 for life is stay on the bike.
And as soon as you can you get rid of the training wheels.
There's no way to explain how good entertainment feels.
It's better than nothing and it's more fun than pinball,
when it's done poorly, it's enough to make the skin crawl.
It's like chewing on tinfoil and the only thing worse
is when kids pedal drums without paying a few dues first.
So don't ask what my drums are 'cause I either won't tell you,
or else I've got a list of phony records to sell you.
'Cause see, no one helped me and as a matter of fact,
there's a thrill in the hunt for a platter of wax. It's called searching for the perfect beat, the honor is prestigeous
to those with the knowledge and to cheat is sacrilegeous.
I'm talking bootlegs and re-issues, I avoid them like the plague,
but don't ask where I look, cause I'll lie or be vague.
I'm on the look out for beats, every little second,
check country and western, even heavy metal records.
Leaving no stone uncovered, for every 10 tooken,
you may find none with 10 hours spent looking.
But that's what makes a good score so rewarding,
even if you spend 20 bucks on a rare recording.
So don't ask what my drums are cause I either won't tell you,
or else I've got a list of phony records to sell you.
My beats aren't familiar so you can't put your finger on it.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Jaws of Life
Album: Vertex

I used to march around the playground with my friends yelling, "We hate girls,"
and now all's well that ends well,
and there's so much to be said for fresh starts and second chances
in a world of scary monsters and high-tech advances.
I try to do what I do with love instead of with anger
and sometimes I bite my nails 'cause real life is a cliffhanger.
What, with only seconds left at the end of the tenth hour,
we've got emergency ways to respond to the Nth power.
The alloys are light weight and increasingly durable,
but as far as I'm concerned the original is preferable.
I'm stubborn that way, I piss while humanity waits,
my motto wouldn't fit on a set of vanity plates.
The watch in my pocket may be indeed old and tarnished,
but at least I can raise my hand without a shoulder harness.
You know I could easily replace my lungs with a respirator,
my pants with a TV and my staircase with an escalator
but, my life revolves around the spherical orbit of Earth
and it ends forever with the miracle moment of birth.
On the first day of spring, I start work on the fall edition,
and decide for myself who's a thief and who's a politician.
It's two different things on different pages of the calendar.
I gauge the way I react on the age of my challengers.
I row my boat gently against the current and I believe a real
life and death experience, and keeping an even keel.

The older I get, the more life starts to make sense,
and the less I care.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: The Blues Part I
Album: Vertex

A game worth winnin' from the beginnin' of the first inning.
An essential day off since it's perventual playoffs,
and I'm playin' shortstop, batting fourth in the line-up,
the opposing pitcher's a right-hander with an unorthodox wind-up.
And a good move to first, throws a curve, and changes speeds.
Can be wild at times and known to blow the strangest leads.
Like the last time we faced him, he turned one savage
lead into a loss for his team, and inflated his Earned Run Average.
But today he seems focused and we were stuck out to dry
in the top of the first 'cause he struck out the side.
But in the bottom half, the bad guys came out swingin'.
A lot of coaches like to choose takin' the sane route,
bring in the big hitters to the plate, and players that are purely speed,
and try to manufacture runs and jump out to an early lead.
And this time it worked, so we were gonna need a hero,
'cause after one complete, the score's already 3 to 0.
Leadin' off the second, I swung at the first pitch.
No wonder the center fielder back-peddled to the track and settled under it.
0 for 1 and can't get goin'.
The ball's thrown around the horn and back to the pitcher now.
And all is going good for the bad guys, but not so hot for the visitors.
The big right-hander is takin' no prisoners.
He seems to have us figured out, the question is, can we compete?
He's pitching perfect after 3 complete and has a 3-1 lead.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: On All Fours
Album: Vertex

There's equal spaces between the hurdles and steeple chases,
so I don't go around blowing smoke in people's faces.
Rather than acting like a pest to your spouse,
I'll conduct my behavior like I'm a guest in your house.
No matter what, 'cause I found out you'll learn,
it's your ass in the future if you fart on someone's furniture.
Not everyone thinks having no class is funny,
and a fool is an outcast when he outlasts his money.
I dress like an old man but so what and Lord knows,
I love little babies and I cry at award shows.
It's nice to hear the sad songs played on the piano,
I'm a fan of the fine arts and John Gailliano.
I use mirrors in attempts to dispelling the powers
of evil and believing, smelling the flowers even.
Life is a ??, a thug will get stagnant,
so follow your nose and savior the fragrance.
I don't act hard and waste time with irrelevance,
or underestimate the audience's intelligence.
I do what I do with skill and sincerity,
I am what I am, not a fraud or a parody.
So I don't act hard and waste time with irrelevance,
or underestimate the audience's intelligence.
I just do what I do with skill and sincerity.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Slow Drama
Album: Vertex

The race is over and I won, these are not contradictory facts.
All that's left now is victory laps,
and I have no intention of slowing the pace,
so unless you're a sucka, you won't be showin' your face.
And guess what else, I don't want to shake hands
or make friends or make amends, so don't make plans,
'cause not only not can you ride on my coat tails,
I wouldn't even let ya clean the dirt out of my toenails.
I consider your style to be garden variety,
and you can't go around actin' hard in society.
It's only gonna lead to frustration, more depression,
and vague illusions over a minor key chord progression.
So continue the chase by all means,
but ya might want to think about what it is you're chasin'.
'Cause if your foes is your own tail and ya try to match his wit,
it may be like pickin' up dimes with a catcher's mit.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Sleep Apnoea
Album: Vertex

"In my darkness I knew now upon this object of nature, and now upon that, and
find it impossible to soothe my restless head, however much I wish it.
This perpetual action of mine deprives me almost wholly of sleep."

I haven't slept, sleep being the cousin of death,
and as I lay there awake at night there wasn't a breathe
that exited my body that didn't coincide
with the recycled evaluation of feelings that I know inside.
Boy Scouts have had their way with my stomach
and a marionette hangs limply from my most important muscle.
I simply can't imagine living on the moon.
I hope that I can climb my way back to dreamland pretty soon.

Prosthetic throwing arm, isn't it fantastic?
I won a one way ticket to hell in a handbasket.
It seems like I got it made, and then I begin to feel
like I'd give up all my winnings for another chance to spin the wheel.
I don't know if I have a prayer or a hope in Heaven,
all I know is that I'm afraid to read my horoscope.
It makes me wanna holler or at least let out a yell.
I'd give up my next life if I thought that it would help.
I don't wanna play no more, I just wanna get to sleep,
'cause most likely sleep will let me forget about the other people
that haven't been able to make me stop feeling
like the demons are hiding behind the walls and in the ceiling.
My catcher always told me, "You can't hit what you can't see."
Your absence actually aggravates my fancy and my own stubble tickles me
and irritates my sensitive skin.
I'm surprised at how uninventive I've been.
I'm frozen, but my mind's made up and I've chosen
to lock the door behind the next person that goes in.
Raindrops keep falling on my cheeks and on my trusty
little halo over my head, and so it's getting rusty.
I've been poked by so many fingers
that getting poked by fingers don't bother me no more.
I feel like a jelly fish, unselfilized,
uncivilized, unspecified, unspecialized.

Currents carry me, my own endurance buries me.
Deterrents make me weary, so I wear this ring for reassurance.
Currents carry me, my own endurance buries me.
Deterrents make me weary, so I wear this ring for reassurance.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: The Blues Part II
Album: Vertex

Top of the fourth and our lead-off hitter makes it to first base.
And here we go, it's the worst-case
scenario for any opposing pitcher because he got a reckon
that the first chance he gets, he's gonna try to steal second,
which he does. So for the first time during the mission,
we've got nobody out and a man in scoring position.
The next batter flies out to right, but yo word,
that's still only one out and a runner on third.
So then the number 3 hitter steps up to the conventional talk,
showin' where he'll hit, but draws the intentional walk.
It's an old maneuver they made 'cause trouble may follow
unless they get the double play from the clean-up hitter and that's me.
The infielder's set up a double play depth when they're ready,
but I smack a line drive into left-center for a double, bringing two across,
which just leaves it up to me to do the damage in the clean-up spot,
'cause now the score was 3 to 2.
The score remained the same through five past hits to pretense.
We kept it close with a dazzling display of defense.
We had to pull the starting pitcher, the one that was left handed.
The story of the sixth inning was base runners left stranded
and bullpen activity. But still the job is gettin' it done
after a perfectly executed hit and run
and what may later prove to be the ultimate game-winning catch.
We got a tie game going into the seventh inning stretch.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Memory is Parallax
Album: Vertex

Suger in the gastank and sand in the vasoline,
Buck 65 and foreign currencies
just in case and for emergencies, I keep double copies, single pairs
of plastic explosive if I need them for signal flairs. Goshdarnit,
I'm the intesifying image of your last hope incarnate,
five percent fairytale
and ninety-five of me is hardwork and I rarely fail.
Even though I'm very pale, I wear a suit of armor and,
in the summer time I ride my bike and get a farmer's tan.
Forty-one to thirty and I'm ok for hours,
backstage at the showcase, I want bouquets of flowers,
a large order of frieds and I'm sort of surprised
because the same thing happened in the Lord of the Flies
when Piggy lost his glasses and got crushed by a boulder.
Thanks and no, and even though I'm touched, I am older,
47,516. All I need's a flexed wrist,
stupid DJs would give their right arm to be ambidextrous.
The path of radical thought is mathematical.
I substract distractions in addition to inhibitions,
now c'mon everybody, click your heels and do the Dorothy.
Don't go lookin' for trees through the forestry,
I'll calmy and gladly tell your mommy and daddy
that their little baby girl is part of an experiment.
I never meant to scare anyone, I've been honest, I've been nice,
but I feel like I'm skating on thin ice,
and my skates need sharpening,
I got hardwood floors, but I cover them up with some nice shag carpeting.
I've pulled whole lotsa dollars out of whole lotsa pockets,
but life is still just a big old bowl of cherries,
and luck berries to chew on, and any kind of fruit juice.
I used to always either have a bleeding nose or loose tooth.
That was in the seventies, I'll tell ya ladies and gentlemen,
that after bein' in the nineties, replaced the eighties' adrenalin.
These be the things that the world says to censor,
and it will snap your head back like an old-fashioned pez-dispenser.
So try to stay on top of it, in fact, knowing opposites attract,
the best thing might be to open windows for security.
As we slip into obscurity, and something more comfortable,
try to bear in mind that memory is parallax.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: To Say the Very Least
Album: Vertex

Old-fashioned outfits and it also appears
that gratuities are greater when you don't wear braziers.
They give you their orders and watch when you write 'em,
wishing that you could be their menu item.
They wanna be breast-fed the day you get work off,
with you in their thoughts, they walk home and then jerk off.
You look like a model, so young and intrepid.
Your regular customers are old and decrepid.
The food here is rotten, but the service is stellar,
I know that I love her, and I wish I could tell her.
But they don't know your name, 'cause you don't really care,
as long as they tip you and stay in their chair.
They swallow their tongues with the venom of thirty vipers,
if you tell them a lie, it changes their dirty diapers.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Works of Light
Album: Vertex

I don't even know if it's really worth mentionin'
that anti-freeze without toxic is rather thirst quenchin'in.
Anyway, the point is you have to choose between school
and having kids that splash around in the shallow end of the gene pool.
How did you manage to make the erection worthwhile
with cigars and the scars from a c-section birth style?
The next thing you know, you're behind, and pretty soon your mom's
taking photos of your date to the shitty junior prom.
Even though you feel in your gastro-intestinals
that you'd rather hang with Yelson or Castro in festivals.
You try so hard, get ahead but you can only fail,
so you might as well start wearing your hair up in a ponytail.
If you need to be told what to say, get a teleprompter,
and take some advice from a man up in a helicopter.
Piss off the wrong person you think you're defending,
with promises made they may be just pretending.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Bachelor of Science
Album: Vertex

I try to be nice and take care of my appearances,
keep out of trouble and trifle interferences.
The bachelor of science I run my own company.

Somebody call me, my number's unlisted,
some stories are straight and others come twisted.
Women's intuition and young gals' luck,
every girl I know has a crush on (who?).
Boys may cheat, either that or they might leave her.
All I wanna do is dance, I've got Saturday night fever.
So let me rearrange my sock drawers alone behind locked doors,
and make scrambled eggs for breakfast and sit and read the box scores.
But I'm not tryin' to score points with,
I'd rather read the Bible than use its pages to roll joints with.
I get what I want but got no one to share it with,
I feel it in my chest and nothin' to compare it with.
The bachelor of science, I run my own company.

Show me your photographs and tell me a ghost story,
as long as it doesn't involve your ex-boyfriend.
Stars glow in the dark until the first sign of daylight,
I like human contact but I don't like to play fight.
The desperado knows just how at peace we are,
in the bed naked watchin' movies on the VCR.
Color me see through and tickle my favorite inch,
turn the ringer off and thank God for David Lynch.

("I wanna show girls that I love them")

I hope to goodness that I'll always be aware and sure of myself.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Style #386
Album: Vertex
Typed by:

From dawn to sunrise, sunrise to dawn,
I drop math in ya path and rock on.
Sunrise to dawn, from dawn to sunrise,
for you to try battlin' me would be unwise.

65 to seven days of the week so
you don't wanna catch a sinker slider to the cheek bone.
Call me critical the disc jockey, the B-side kickin'
phat beats eternal, eternal pushin' fried chicken.
Snap cracklin', the daft shacklin' rap jackels
sneak attack battlin' wack tacklin'.
The crab apple got skills but at the same time artist,
I face the east and pray to the rhyme goddess,
with the tender lovin', the rainin', and the big sliker,
the good sumaritin, homicidal hitchhicker.
Hell on wheels of steel, stick shifted,
puffin' on beats and rock on to get quick lifted.
Syllables into non-refillable blank spaces,
eliminatin' contestants according to their rank basis.
Buryin' cesarean MCs when the scratch is torn,
direct other rappers can't fuck with the natural born.
I never face the same ginet that Romeo faces,
'cause I'm too concerned with my Enhomeostasis.
The DJ front and center and the sooner he flips,
you'll be freeze framin' 'til the next lunar eclipse,
with the crazy ass birds a prey, they got the right words to say,
they come and circumsize you when ya eatin' ya curds and whey.
Try to make a new jack feel like the ace of spades,
before ya know the ledge gettin' sodamized, replace his grades.
Used and confused, goin' about the whole scheme wrong,
ass backwards from the closin' credits to the theme song.
Dire straits reminiscing back to prior dates,
ya better off tarzed and your rhyme book in fire place.
To slash and burn and try to learn how to earn the wage,
the end of the chapter four rabbit, time to turn the page.
Pathetic cryin' on ya knees, beggin' for a lease please,
lemme keep your autographed poster and the creased sleeve.
The whole prize vaporized before your eyes, ya lost objective
because the dream was no longer cost effective.
Ya threw a gutter ball and still had to utter gaul
to profile and front, when you know my shit is butter y'all.

From dawn to sunrise, sunrise to dawn,
I drop math in ya path and rock on.
Sunrise to dawn, from dawn to sunrise,
for you to try battlin' me would be unwise.

Man Overboard (2001)

Title: Track 1 [Off and Running]

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 2 [Plastic Bags]
Album: Man Overboard

Our Father, who art here among us,
in thy name sacred and the physical among us,
give us this day, our daily gift
of science to drop and knowledge to lift.
Please forgive our indiscretions and perversions,
and always grant us the insight to determine.
From here to kingdom come, thy demands will be respected,
ashes to ashes, and the harvest is collected.
May He vanquish those who trespass against us,
and never trust those who must act as gangstas.
Give us direction, provide us protection,
keep our temple from infection.
At random, today may be symmetrical, the next day,
praise to the crank shaft, the spoiler, the electrical x-ray. 

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 3
Album: Man Overboard
Typed by: DJ Coldcuts

I got a flat chest and a head like a rat's nest,
not to mention, that I'm harder than a math test.
Naked lyin' face down, naked from the waist down,
after that I'll go back and burn your place down,
get the cheese outta your handy snack, then I'll call your granny back,
I got a great big wad of cash in my fanny pack.
The flat bus broken, the angel dust smokin',
man with the handcuffs on, just jokin'.
I describe myself as a half decent sax player,
amateur coin collector, John Q taxpayer.
Shy around girls with my face all scarred,
the only thing in my wallet is a baseball card.
I live in the city, but I miss farming life,
all I need to survive is my swiss army knife.
The story of my childhood is bad luck and crisis,
born in the year of the rat and I'm a pisces,
which makes me a rat fish, so I'm gonna soon need
someone to tie my shoes and spoon feed me.
Can't wait 'til the day when I ride around in rocket cars,
and wear short sleeve shirts, and all I eat is chocolate bars.
Take my place for granted and assume the position,
on top of the heap, because soon the tradition
of winning the game with one swing of the bat,
will forever be a thing of the past.

If I be myself, I'll be by myself,
but I don't wanna be remembered by the way I've been rendered.
No I don't...

They keep me pent up in this hot and sweaty cage,
with a worn out mattress and a poster of {Eddie|Betty} Page,
and I'm supposed to write the great American love story,
why don't they sound trumpets and release flocks of doves for me?
I gotta be particular about how my career is handled,
before I record, I should go and get my ears candled.
I'd like a glass of water and a box of facial tissue,
doing what I do has never really been a racial issue.
Someday soon I'm gonna have to settle down,
before my bones start makin' that metal on metal sound.
The difference between me and other people is the greased palms,
I was never one to hold my breath when I release bombs.
It's possible that I can be huge, but I doubt it,
'cause my phone's off the hook, but that's about it.
Handling my biz, I should really do a shipment
and try to make some money to buy some new equipment,
with a brand new mic and a room with insulation,
colored pencils, all I need is inspiration,
which brings me back to this hot and sweaty cage,
the worn out mattress, and the poster of {Eddie|Betty} Page.
I look at people look at me, how am I supposed to feel?
Showing me a picture that isn't even close to real.
The final approach is upon me, I can feel it,
so I might call the song, "I was right all along,"
or I might call the song "I never had stitches,"
or I might call it "Mr. Know It All,"
or "Don't forget the chaos",
or "Two sizes too big,"
"The hydra twist,"
"The scene ripper,"
"Creative differences,"
"No time to lose,"
or "Pieces, pieces, pieces..."
Yeah, "Pieces, pieces, pieces..."

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 6
Album: Man Overboard
Typed by: DJ Coldcuts

I walk the Earth quietly, my name carry a net
with no strings attached 'til my magic carryin' in.
see there's so little time left and yet there's so much space,
thinkin' why don't you give me a call later on so we can touch base.
I swim across the seven seas and follow the sound of hand claps
and just try to keep my balls out of the sand trap,
'cause before I go on live, all my enemies try to contrive
plots to make my whole entire routine take a swan dive.
I just ain't commercialized hip hop or indie pop,
nah this ain't the mashed potato, uh uh, this ain't the windy [lindy] hop.
The dance that goes with this is called the keep perfectly still,
before your brain becomes burnt out like cheap circuitry wheel.
Lately I've been spending almost all my nights with my hands full,
between writing my rhymes and my fights with the man wolf.
I'm building a better mouse trap and plus a wider fence,
'cause I trust my instincts and I follow my spider sense. 

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 7
Album: Man Overboard
Typed by: DJ Coldcuts, Edited by: RoyalDuke02

You ain't feelin' me 'til you feel what I feel,
I ride by myself on one wheel,
but I deal with the fact that you take what you get and ignore
the shit and the piss that goes with the territory.
Compare the story stuck to the fridge
to that of the hermit living under the bridge.
One counts his blessings and asks "what are my debts?,"
the other collects cash in butterfly nets.
Talk about stuck, can't even begin to know,
pants around my ankles and I'm waitin' for the wind to blow,
waitin' for the sun to shine, question mark, underline,
lookin' for the perfect break, it seems as though they're none to find.
The highest heel couldn't make me feel inferior,
'cause you can't ever really camoflauge your interior.
So even though sometimes I hide in the undergrowth,
I say my graces as if I were under oath.
By the skin of my teeth, and by the hair on my chin,
guess but you'll never know where I've been,
around the block twice, across hell's half acre,
I gave my girl a kiss, and the devil a back-breaker.
When it's not classified, you can't expect to rank it,
all I need is my pen and my electric blanket.
Take that away and I'll have nothing left,
unless you include my love, in which case,
death is not an option and neither is brainwashing,
so when you enter my temple, maintain caution.
Don't speak if you can't speak intelligently,
forget your dynamite and skeleton key.
When the mob comes running with pitchforks and torches,
I'll be safe and surrounded by sound inside my fortress walls.
The waters of the motor are all alligator infested,
every situation has later been tested.
After the initial hypothesis posed,
the machine is out of order and the office is closed.
The boss called in sick and the crew's at lunch,
it's weird wearin' two different shoes at once.
It's all water under the bridge, it'll make sense
one day when sunsets are digital.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 8
Album: Man Overboard
Typed by: DJ Coldcuts

If you're anything like me, you probably don't read the Source
anymore and miss crews like the JVC Force.
Don't stop, show no shame, dance to disco
and you know the baddest DJs come from San Francisco.
But be sure to tell DJ Static if you see him please,
when you're in Denmark, he was robbed at the DMCs.
Shouts out to Swamp and other DJs that were fronted on,
and all of those that like to dig for oldies, yo, the hunt is on.
I'm always down to make trades for shit with those in the know,
I just found another copy of Moke Indigo.
I'm on a steady look out for dope breaks non-stop,
all I had to pay was fifty cents at a pawn shop.
And when it comes to being phat, the best kind of weight gain
has to be seeing your name up on a freight train,
moving galleries of steel to show the giants,
to the people all over the world, you know the science.

I got the hip hop holy ghost in each one of my body parts,
the needle to the record, 'cause that's when the party starts.
Hard rockin' it is hell and a way to live
all the time, I don't wanna dwell on the negative,
oh no, 'cause I be the self-fronted low
professional DJ, 1200 Hobo
crew member, nomad, down to show alliance,
to those that's in it for the love, you know the science.

Rhymes to the beats and showin' no signs of goin' soft,
gimme a mic and I'm gonna start showin' off.
I hustle coast to coast and represent the Sebutones,
while I write my rhymes at high noon and fine tune my own style,
'cause every now and then I talk shit and curse and swear,
whether I go first or last, I'm no worse for wear.
And I combine scratches and complicated compositions
on the radio, on records, or at competitions.
High powered goin' left to right, and you can switch the role,
33 to 45 manuevering the pitch control,
to get get my daily dose of body rock to feel revitalized,
and bless the microphone for the gods I've always idolized.
I pledge allegiance to the beatbox and the enthusiasts,
especially the ones that are hard to please and choose it.
I gotta keep hope alive for those who show defiance
to hip hop as a religion, you know the science.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 9
Album: Man Overboard

All my soul, my head, and aching tummy,
why in the world was my mother taken from me?
Up until the last minute, I'll be lookin' for the best answer,
hard as she tried, she couldn't outrun the breast cancer.
What am I supposed to do? I need at least another year,
there comes times everyday I need to have my mother here.
I need to talk to her, it's important, it seems to be.
I gotta make sure she understands how much she means to me.
Who will be there to pick me up by the waist band?
Plus I promised one day I would take her to Graceland.
There's things she needs to say, for instance,
I plan buildin' a family of my own, and she's never had grandchildren.
She always helped to make my work around the kitchen painless,
I want her to see me when I'm finally rich and famous.
Who will I ask my stupid questions when they come up?
My first impulse is that I want to call my {mom|mother} up.
But then I'm standin' there, holdin' a telephone,
wishin' this headache would leave me the hell alone.
The last thing I need is for pain to fill my empty spaces,
and right now I feel pain in plenty of places.
I need to make her laugh more, I want to have pictures taken,
she always told her friends about the music her son Richard is makin'.
I need to listen to her stories and tell her my own ones,
and I want her to watch when I hit lots of homeruns.
For a few things, I need to say I'm sorry, and blame me
instead of yourself, and as for Lorrie and Amy,
I'll make sure they're okay and that they always wear a seatbelt.
I promise to ease back whenever the heat's felt.
I wanna go home and show off this weekend,
but I can't and it feels like I might go off the deep end.
It's painful being here, but it's unfit there.
My mother's gone away and it's not one bit fair.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 10
Album: Man Overboard
Typed by: DJ Coldcuts

This collection of sketches are rough and scattered, is arranged by instinct.
There's entropy at work but mostly it happened by accident.
Your story goes with this but for it to make sense you'd have to be me,
and for it to make dollars, I'd have to be something I despise.
Don't ask me how I manage, no one gets paid to make change.
Every morning I salute the flag with her,
grab the fingers of my left hand behind my back and continue my search.
I'm wondering how I got here, who besides me is responsible?
Not the young man I was when I first wrote the code.
Now I don't have it in me to fuss over much,
I need sleep more than ever before.
What remains of my violence is so precious, I keep all of it to myself.
What frightens me most now is my gradual loss of hearing,
so I'm guided more and more by vibes,
I shield my eyes from flickering images
and document my dreams with as much detail as possible.
I figure I'll write my book when it's all I can do but I don't know when.
Have you any idea how hot these sands?
Yeah, I come in contact with the odd scavenger here and there
but those encouters rarely amount to much.
I just gazed the same few black and white photographs of distant loves,
long lost souls, diamonds of my most glorious moments.
I remember the gold rush, it makes me laugh now to think of the risks I took.
The monuments will remain and that's all that matters,
but the question always becomes, "Am I happy?"

Track 11

Track 12

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 13
Album: Man Overboard

The word miracle isn't really worth the same
as a measure of marvel in Heaven as it is on Earth
because extraordinary happenings are commonplace in the promised land,
so the precedent is modified.
God itself decides the phenomenom fairly fantastic in nature,
happened very rarely by standards set by the practicing masters
of the spectactular arts in paradise.

As I strolled aimless on the edges of sacrement one day,
I wasn't looking and died by accident.
With sugar on my tongue and a breeze in each armpit,
I descended to Heaven cross-legged by magic carpet.
Carried along through tunnels by a flow of waves,
I met this soul with the role of issuing halos.
His name was Aurora, one time bet-maker,
everything he said he sang like Chet Baker.
He explained the significance of the halo's intentions,
the way that each incriment of its dimensions
bore a correlation to the core of your essence
with factors including the learning of lessons.
Things that matter the most here being,
reflect and direct on the gleam that your seeing.
Overall size of the particle density
as it corresponds to the mission intensity.
Well over 400 factors with gradiance
come into play with each new halo's radiance.
With congratualations and repeating my name,
He also assured me that no two are the same.
It allows you a glimpse into each person's spirit
without even having to come anywhere near it.
So with halo in place and my thankfulness pledged,
my resident status in Heaven was full-fledged.

One day in eternity after riding a teeter-totter with God,
I fell asleep with my feet in the water of a lake by a tree
in a quiet little place
where I could be by myself with the sun on my face.
A little while later, I awoke to a rumbling
and opened my eyes to see a scene so humbling.
I couldn't quite catch my breath and my pulse doubled
'cause the lake looked like it boiled as it bubbled.
But instead of scalding my skin, it was soothing,
and it only felt like my imagination was melting.
And trickling into pools of fluid intuition
as secret splendor came to fruition.
My own eyes surrendered as rapture found its purpose
as beautiful harmonies danced on the surface.
Abstract shapes of all colors first
did a dance and then floated from each bubbled bursted.
Literally billions of magnificent things would quake
and quiver on top of the lake.
I glanced left and right to see if maybe anyone else was dreaming this dream.
When I turned all the way with my back to the spectre,
I saw there an angel in the form of perfection.
I felt paralyzed and my voice tried to hide,
she glided and just moved her hips from side to side
without moving her feet, her hand held out in front of her,
calm and collected, my hopes in her palm.
The closer she came, and something about her,
the most soothing sound grew louder and louder.
Intense pleasure ran the length of my spine
as I pulled her towards me with the stength of my mind.
When our hands finally touched, she told me she loved me
and then the shapes from the lake filled the whole sky above me.
Instead of our tongues, we spoke with our eyes,
while music and color pulsed from the skies.

It shines, our edges are dreams running lengthwise.
Our secret wishes fluttering light years.
We fashioned inferences in disguise shapes together.
You are the space between my exhales.
Our way of understanding is eyes closed navigation.
We twist slivers of unconsciousness into sacrement.
Ghosts waltz around our backs.
Our ideas converge to form corners to hide in.

Quicker than dreams we traded our charms,
then spent eternity in each other's arms.
It was a miracle in Heaven,
you could see it and hear it everywhere,
the synthesis of two souls and one spirit.

Our halos were the exact same size.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Track 14 [Pants on Fire]
Album: Man Overboard

Sky diver, your pants are on fire and the rest of your clothes is blowing,
and for some strange reason, your nose is growing.
My skin is crawling, everybody's chin is falling,
jaws are dropping left and right.
Lost cause, you came like a thief in the night
with nice white teeth and a tight ass and long conversation,
fascinating feeling to spend months in your company.
I never felt uncomfortable, even with my clothes off,
chillin' so hard, my ass almost froze off.
Everybody shows off and wants to look presentable,
but the fact of the matter is that accidents are preventable.
From the sound of the candy wrappers
down to the handicappers,
everybody's got to exercise a little caution.
But every so often, expect things to get hectic or
technically difficult and I begin to get skeptical,
especially when the Canadian bacon gets sizzlin'.
Isn't it a sin when the ceiling is invisible?
We need new inventions that reveal people's true intentions.
A portable pride protector, affordable lie detector.
The wild lifestyle has the tendency to intimidate,
but it isn't your invitation to imitate
in front of my face. You spoke my gospel like an apostle
but on the other side of town, you got coke in your nostril.
Just for example, we all want to live a bit,
whatever, it's your body of water, why should I give a shit?

Who are you anyway, and where did you come from?
Dumdum, just when I thought I could trust someone.
The mask comes off, and your face fades away,
you radiate eighty-eight full shades of gray.

Black and white rainbow, you know you ain't acting right,
game show hostess, stabbing every back in sight.
The time has come, thicker than blood,
and make no mistake, I'm a stick in the mud.
I'm a kick in your pants and I'm a lump in your throat
and I'm the hassle in your castle, I'mma jump in your moat,
splash. Hypocritical, condition the hospital,
makes this mission impossible.
Pretty much, I've got no patients left and as a physician or doctor, it puts me in an awkward position.
No magician can trick me, or lick me with a cattle whip,
so what makes you think you can sink my battleship?
Nah, we ain't family, drama queen, the camera's rollin',
show me your swollen memories before the moment's stolen.
Slow-motion Picasso, wearing the wool socks and coming with the full clip,
I'm sick of this bullshit.


Synesthesia (2001)

Track 1: Skill Saw

Track 2: Attack of the Nerds {2001|}

I don't care about you're tippy tappy typist,
the happy hippies tryin' to say that you're the hypest.
Yeah, you can spell but your soul is made of silicon,
you got no skeleton, you're talkin' on the telephone.
That's why I'm off the hook, and I'm on stage with Moka Only,
in style city, makin' people smile pretty,
or else I'm at the race track with Prince Vince for instance,
been doin' this thing since we were infants, listen,
I don't play, not with kiddies and card sharks.
Nah, North American man, I like titties and car parts,
and study star charts and cloud formations, meticulous,
religious, it's rather ridiculous.
Really though, I'm playin' xylophone on your sister's ribs,
pickin' out Christmas decorations with Mr. Dibbs.
Shootin' pool with Kid Koala, talkin' about our girlfriends,
rollin' with the Molemen 'til the day the world ends
And why not? I got a lotta love and some air miles,
one of the best hairstyles slash fashion combinations,
and conversations with Greg Nice in Austin, Texas,
I'm off the checklist, life on the road is often reckless.
Startin' the day off right with some Cap'N Crunch,
chomp, later on me and Swamp'll grab some lunch,
probably, walkin' 'til my legs get wobbly,
don't put your hands in the air, it's not a robbery.
Don't say "ho" unless you're wearin a toupee,
I'm gettin together with the Stero on Tuesday.
Shoppin' for shoes, I can't stop the bleedin',
where's Top Speed when you need him huh?
I'm callin Jimmy Castor to get me past the recipes,
the rest of these referees and rest in peace indefinitely.
I'm desperately lookin for the perfect beat to break in half,
my back is killin' me, and I really need to take a bath.
It makes me laugh, some of these kid tactics are drastic,
just ask Cut Chemist from Jurassic.
Meanwhile, me and Slug are doin' arts and crafts,
drawin' charts and graphs with my friends from the Livin Legends.
I'm out here with Styles of Beyond playin' frisbee,
until we get dizzy then we go and get a freezie.
Point is, I'm easy goin', no need to hide for,
but some folks really need to get outside more.

You can't chop wood with an axe made of words,
it's attack of the nerds 2001.
You can't chop wood with an axe made of words,
it's attack of the nerds 2001.
You can't chop wood with an axe made of words,
it's attack of the nerds 2001.
You can't chop wood with an axe made of words,
it's attack of the nerds 2001.
You can't chop wood with an axe made of words,
it's attack of the nerds 2001.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: I Look Good
Album: Synesthesia

I look good, always, but especially today,
professionally fresh on display like hey,
take a picture, it's not a dream, I'm flat out gorgeous.
Maybe it's because I eat a lot of oranges.
I don't know, I can't help it, I'm not even tryin',
really, I'm hot, you think I'm lyin'?
Look at my ass and pants,
give it more than a passing glance,
stare at it a while.
Compare it to a peach, each cheek if you can bear it.
Breathe me in deeply, I'm like an airy breeze,
whipserin', blowin' through the branches of the cherry trees.
I'm a treat, I'm a nice little surprise for your eyes,
look too long though and it could be your demise.
It ain't a disguise, I'm flyer than an eagle,
sky's the limit, besides the fact that I'm barely legal.
It's too easy, I'm sorry I can't help askin' it,
and bad news, I'm gettin better lookin' with every passing minute.
I'm pretty, pretty, but I take it all in stride,
thing is I'm even more beautiful on the inside.
I'm nice, I'm so nice, with the winning smile, I'm stylish
in fashion, make a wish with my eye lashes.
I'm magical, actually casual traditional,
mystical, in top physical condition.
Well-oiled machine, perfectly peachy keen,
it's freaky really, equally squeaky clean frequently.

I look good and you look good, but not as good as me.
I'm so dope.
I look good and you look good, but not as good as me.
I'm so dope.
I look good and you look good, but not as good as me.
I'm so dope.
I look good and you look good, but not as good as me.
I'm so dope.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Observations [The Scenario Song?]
Album: Synesthesia

I write my rhymes in calligraphy,
I don't curse so don't freak with me.
I shoot hoops by myself, but I don't watch basketball on television.
I sell religion relatively cheap from my bedroom window,
I swallowed myself when you said you'd been low.
I threw a big party for myself on your birthday,
I wish I never got into the position in the first place.
In the worst way, I got a crush on my own reflection,
for my own protection, I'm buildin' up my bone collection.
I also shed my skin on a yearly basis,
it seems like my weapon of choice is clearly tasteless.
Why do I insist on tyin' my wrists?
I should take a slow breath and then fake my own death.
But I didn't start the religion, I'm only a priest in a
b-boy stance like Tony Bautista.
I'm free spirited, building three pyramids,
with crosses on top and an antenna, period.
It's really weird, nearly every year through much avaudum,
I sink down deeper and deeper until I touch the bottom.
I see with my hands and I walk through a dark entrance,
climb on the trees and sit on the park benches.
This is what I always wanted.

A lonely old man picks up a stone to admire its shape,
later that night he falls down the stairs of the fire escape.
Nobody knew his name.

A sixteen year old basketball star named Matthew
swallows some pills and spills his guts in the bathroom
just because his girlfriend dumped him or somethin'.

An 8 year old girl is haunted by frightening faces,
she cries herself to sleep on a nightly basis.
Her dad's an alcoholic.

A man desperate to satisfy his wife's cravings
goes to the bank and takes out his life savings.
His next stop is the casino.

A woman with a ring on her finger, eating dinner,
just found out her fiancee is cheating on her.
He's outta town right now.

One of the greatest teachers there ever was
sits at home and waits for the phone to ring, but it never does.
He's slowly going blind.

A tall, soft-spoken man named Vincent
has been in for jail 20 years even though he's innocent.
He whistles "The Girl from Ipanema."

A man of the cloth is on vacation.
Last week he broke down in front of his congregation.
He's losing his faith in God.

Track 8: 'cc Buick

the first break i ever found, was by alphonse mouzon

i also like this one song by kiss called "addidas"

if gentlemen prefer blondes i guess i'm not a gentleman

Artist: Buck 65
Track 9: Mouth Wash
{Title: The F-Word|}
Album: Synesthesia

The F-word feels ugly in my mouth, clumsy, huff and puff,
but I guess I'm not tough enough.
I'd have to say mainly,
it makes me feel strangely, and frankly I'm not that angry of a person.
So cursin' and swearin' ain't part of my presentation,
play me on the radio without a moment's hesitation.
Don't ever worry about your little sister listenin',
I used to have this thing for model Helena Christensen,
which is completely irrelevant, blueberry elephant.
Anyway, I like to consider myself more eloquent.
I got more potent potions in my syringe
and when I hear one of my old songs with the f-word I cringe now.
I'm not tryin' to make anyone feel lesser,
it's just that it don't go with any other clothes in my dresser.
Some people think that it's the best word in the english language,
but for some reason, recently, it causes me anguish.

Sayin' the f-word takes too much effort,
except when I'm havin' sex, I say it next to never.
Sayin' the f-word takes too much effort,
except when I'm havin' sex, I say it next to never.
Sayin' the f-word takes too much effort,
except when I'm havin' sex, I say it next to never.
Sayin' the f-word takes too much effort,
except when I'm havin' sex, I say it next to never.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Ho [Hens]
Album: Synesthesia

"I want everybody in the house to say ho!"

After the show, every rapper I know
is like "can I get a ho?" And it's so gross,
they wanna do wood work, hammering, screwin' like a carpenter.
They sharpen their pencil with any kind of sharpener.
Don't matter fat or skinny, serve it on a silver platter,
skip the formalities and get on to iller matters.
Squizzles and swirls of miserable whirlwinds,
invisible individuals that usually have girlfriends
back home, oblivious when they're in the hotel bonin',
gropin', slobberin', hopin' for a blowjob of some sort.
It's sport's wear, short hair and certain secretions,
slippery secrets, red meats and bed sheets.
Bendin' over strokin' parts,
sleepless nights and broken hearts,
and records from the best CDs,
wilted flowers, STDs.
The nameless women involved are shameless,
spreadin' their legs for anyone famous.
The frenziest fluzies flauntin' their inventory,
it's all so sordid and I don't feel sorry for them.
Even though it's sad, it's throwaway romance,
disposable souls with no chance for salvation.
Instead salivation, heavy breathing every evening.
It's always the same guessing game
in the dressing room, what a waste.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a prude,
but I'm not no prostitute either, dude.

No after my show's done, no I don't want no one.
No pushing up on me, no please just let me be.
{No breathing down my neck, no, what did you expect?
|What did you expect? No breathing down my neck.}
No spreadin' out your legs, no tryin' to lay some eggs.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Jen and I
Album: Synesthesia

Sending me together, kick enough ass to start a riot,
take us on, two on two, if you think you got the heart to try it.
We got the looks and of course you know our buns are crunchy,
plus we got the brains between the two of us to run the country.
So don't even come around here if you aren't special,
'cause we can beat any other team in an arm wrestle.
We're like a circus act with spectacular costumes,
heat or exhaust fumes, or at least put on sunglasses,
and watch how our young asses emit pure sunshine,
then fill the entire sky with fireworks one time.
Bam! Like that, we rock like 80s hair bands,
then we take the time to build a bridge with our bare hands.
No problem, all in a day's work, you wanna make a bet?
We could run a marathon and not even break a sweat.
First place, every time, just like a walk in the park.
You know how dope we are? Just take a shot in the dark.
Go ahead, guess, we're like stunt people for the love of God.
We're above the law, bulletproof, superhuman,
never been a group or union been around the moon and back,
got plans to go again sometime soon in fact.
We get asked a lot if we're astronauts, just as an after thought,
we clown around and laugh a lot.
We kick ass, quick fast, but never reckless,
eat a complete breakfast, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast.
Packed full of goodness, we're cooler than refrigerators,
watch us glide up and down the street like figure skaters.
Can't stand it? It's like we're from another planet,
no wonder some fellas get jealous of us, we're number one.
Unusual musical miracle workers at your service,
it's natural to be a bit nervous at first,
actually, many might have died, wonderin' when and why,
what could ever possibly stop Jen and I.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: I Need a Lift
Album: Synesthesia

Standin' on the side of the road with a long shadow and suitcases,
goin' nowhere and I don't care.
I'm a grown man holdin' my own hand, kickin' my own ass for cryin',
I'm dyin' on the inside and I don't know why.
I'm filthy rotten, haunted by a guilty conscience,
runnin' away and all because of silly nonsense.
Gone since God knows when and I ain't comin' back
knowing that no one gives a rat's ass anyway.

I just want to find a place where I can sit in a rocking chair,
no matter how far, even if it means walking there.
Maybe I'll get me a dog for some company,
better than trying to figure out somebody.
Give me a good book, a radio, and a sewing machine,
a place in the woods by the ocean and no in between.
I gotta get rid of these dark circles and headaches,
maybe if I meditate rather than medicate.
I can no longer hesitate, it get so frantic,
but what if wishes are overly romantic though?
The sun's too low in the sky for second guess I reckon,
and I'm used to taking chances.
Breakin' a few branches and gettin' lucky now and then,
finding some trouble was just a matter of how and when.
Now I take notes and make boats from birch bark,
but stress still shows on my face as a birth mark.
As soon as I get where I'm going, I'm gonna wash my hands thoroughly
and start gettin' out of bed earlier.
'Cause it's curious the way I've tried vicariously
to fly so low to the ground and so carelessly.
How embarrassing, I can't wait to call it quits,
seeing how more and more tiring is all it gets.
I've applied various and unique strategies,
read a few Greek tragedies, and fasted for two weeks.
Been rollin' around in a hole in the ground, no surprise,
both my eyes are swollen shut, I'm stranded here with no supplies.
I need a lift.
What have a I done?

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Smoke
Album: Synesthesia

Shit. Some start smoking for weird reasons concerning fashion,
but me, I hate all of that shit with a burning passion.
Cigarette somethin' gets my eyebrows all in a twist,
ballin' a fist, yellow fingers, can call it a dis.
'Cause like, I don't want all of my eyeballs dried out,
so head for the hide out, man, ya shoulda never tried out.
Stay home, blow that smoke up your own ass, mow the grass,
you're grossin' me out with every second breath.
You're beggin' death, you're makin' me choke,
I wish you'd hurry up and start takin' a stroke.
I don't say it for the sake of a joke.
I'd rather snack on a cactus with aspestos,
it's why I prefer doin' shows out on the west coast, no smoking only.
I'm the cardiovascular-muscular-masculine-spectacular-gasmask-wearin'-rap-mass
who's strapped with an ashtray,
but some MCs come to please with the gum disease instead.
Stayin' alive for the full suit of armor maybe,
but smoke and cigarettes during pregnancy can harm your baby.
Bad idea, as soon as I see someone lightin' up,
it puts me on edge and my stomach muscles tighten up.
Please keep your cancer to yourself with your black lungs,
the wack ones bum smokes from someone when they lack funds.
Trust me, it feels like my throat is rusting,
my lungs are busting, it's frustrating and disgusting.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: The Centaur
Album: Vertex/Synesthesia (Remix Version)

Most people are curious, some wanna get dirt on The Centaur.
I'm famous, I walk around with no shirt on.
The easiest way would be for you to lie face down.
I'm a man, but I'm built like a horse from the waist down.
People are afraid of me but act like they love me.
Feast your eyes upon my nudity.
I am Beauty and The Beast.
I have plenty to say but nobody listens
because my cock is so big and the end of it glistens,
so I'm famous for it.
"Freaky" is what everyone's name is for it.
Sure, it's larger than yours, I'm a Centaur for Chrissakes!
I like to eat rice cakes and listen to classical music.
I'm told passion is my specialty but really I'm old-fashioned.
I'm quite well-built, as far as physiques go,
so people seem to think that I belong in a freak show.
They want to have pictures taken constantly, assumin'
that my sex drive is three times that of a normal human.
Asking silly questions like I'm their personal mentor.
All they care about is my big dick because I'm the centaur.
The porno industry wants to pay me lots of money
to appear in books and movies 'cause they think I look funny,
but I'm lookin' for true love, not groupies and freaks.
More than a huge cock, I have a complicated mind.
I'm not the favorite kind of companion for the average person.
Sometimes things start well but eventually worsen
when sex becomes a problem,
or else they're unimpressed with the attention that you get being a Centaur's love interest.
You don't care about my next life,
just my ex-wife and the intimate details of our sex life.
Most people are curious. Some wanna get dirt on The Centaur.
I'm famous, I walk around with no shirt on.
The easiest way would be for you to lie face down.
I'm a man, but I'm built like a horse from the waist down.

Square ({2003|2002})

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Square One: Song 1
Album: Square
Typed by: argot

It was the echoing voices of the old ones,
through thick steal forests and overscorched Earth.
Always just out of reach.
A murder of crows judged my every footstep.

My bones were frozen.
Penniless and entirely out of breath,
I washed my beautiful hands in the black market dog water trough.

But through it all, the real stick in my spokes was the torment of my dreams.
I fought off sleep with both fists and sometimes fire.

With little more than a blow gun that I made from an exhausted pen,
I shot the stars out of the sky.
When each one fell, sparkling to the ground,
I made wishes that never came true.

Apparitions of angels with angry eyes appeared at each new moon.
My own ghost began whispering
and the trees died if I tried climbing.
The decision was made for begin interpreting real life
just as I would a nightmare.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Square One: Song 2
Album: Square
Typed by: argot

Watching an already dead world vanish,
we the banished and outlawed wander
hither and yonder like dogs gone hungry.
Funky and angry and sometimes ugly.

Drums like drugs have turned us to scavengers,
pathfinders, addicts, and mathematicians,
practioners of blackmagic.
We make music from used up junk and bad luck dreams.

Liars and losers, emus and aardvarks,
gypsies and penthieves, pedalers, cardsharks.
All of us fortune tellers combing the forest.
Hardcore, building a cardboard fortress.

Forward fast and backwards blindfolded.
Trying to find gold buried in floodplains.
Covered in bloodstains, flybites and egg yolk.
Running away with one of my legs broke.

Sometimes it's lonesome travelling homeless.
Not knowing where you're going, riding the railroads.
Pick up some sailboats, and most of the locamotives
once we decide to see some of the countryside.

Working with circus performers and cutthroats.
Discussions with percussionists, perverts, and poets.
Haven't you ever heard of the... 1200 hobos??

We ain't vampires dressed like rock stars,
we build campfires and ride boxcars
town to town, we just write songs,
and plus we stay up like all night long.

We ain't vampires dressed like rock stars,
we build campfires and ride boxcars
town to town, we just write songs,
and plus we stay up like all night long.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Square One: Song 3
Album: Square
Typed by: argot

Twenty some years is a long walk,
even if it's not in a straight line.
You see a lot of things in the distance.
You know what they say about great minds.

You and I think about the same things,
dream the same dreams, play the same games.
We started out in the same place.
Believe it or not, we got the same names.

Everything happens for a good cause,
whether it be victory or loss.
And the road may turn into a runway,
but you'll know what to do someday.

Trust me, I've seen it all before.
I've climbed to the tops of the tallest trees
to get away from the deep water,
to find a touch of the smallest breeze.

You'll find a girl with a low voice,
who holds the world in her bare hands.
You'll fall in love, you'll have no choice,
once you were given a fair chance.

For the first time you will sleep well,
take a deep breath, see the sunshine.
Hold on to her for dear life,
then watch the whole world unwind.

Ask her to show you some magic,
and I guarantee that she will say yes.
Tell her you've seen forever,
and you'll be together not a day less.

Just know until that time comes
and after you cross that first mile,
that the hardest part is behind you,
and all of the pain will be worth while.

From storm clouds come angels.
Let pain give you pleasure.
From dirt roads grow flowers.
When pain can't be measured.

From storm clouds come angels.
Let pain give you pleasure.
From dirt roads grow flowers.
When pain can't be measured.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Square One: Song 4
Album: Square
Typed by: argot

I know a man who was born with his heart on the outside.
Every man's worst fear, he also had heavy hands.
He couldn't touch his lover's face, he couldn't hold the baby.
He would never desert 'em, but he was worried {he's|he would} hurt 'em, maybe.

Mad at the world, his face turned hot pink.
The best he could do was just try and not think.
But he was too bothered, so he would only try rarely.
He read the last page of every book in the library.

He lacked the charisma of a true revolutionary.
Crime fighter, would try to write, but kept breaking his typewriter.
He'd preach his manifesto like a militant radical.
Was dilligent, but his greatest mistakes were grammatical.

If he only spent more time rehearsing, preparing,
there wouldn't have to be so much cursing and swearing.
Eyes on fire, his volume was blistering.
No one had taught him about the power of whispering.

He is dynamite: blows kisses, eats dirt.
Mouth of a volcano, he is a t-shirt.
He stands on stilts, but doesn't stand for funny stuff.
Ask me? He just hasn't been around the sun enough.

He paints self-portraits with a ruler, only eats corn,
and then tries to sell his own soul on the street corner.
He always remembers everyone's numbers and
sometimes cries into his own cumbersome hands.

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Square One: Song 5
Album: Square
Typed by argot

{Note: this is still Song 1}

Sometimes dumb crimes blow my mind,
and lord knows I've tried to close my eyes.
But it happened so fast, I keep my eye on the ball,
but still I never asked to be a fly on the wall.

And like sometimes dumb crimes blow my mind,
and lord knows I've tried to close my eyes.
But it happened so fast, I keep my eye on the ball,
but still I never asked to be a fly on the wall.

Read beginning to end and measured sideways.
I've travelled the length of your desert highways.
Been under your bed and slept in ditches.
I saw your scars was kept in stitches.

To keep from crying I'm trying not to pay attention,
but as I may've mentioned, I'm bein' held hostage.
I'm lost and exhausted, I wanna' go home now,
but I'm too far gone, and I don't even know how.

The silent light and tarnished armor, charming and harmful.
The kharma chameleon might get violent.
Dancing with shadows and playing charades.
It's the miserable plan of the invisible man.

And what's it like livin' life, you may ask,
standing on the other side of two way glass.
Well it's not what it's cracked up to be, I'll tell you that much.
You can look, but you can't touch.

And like sometimes dumb crimes blow my mind,
and lord knows I've tried to close my eyes.
But it happened so fast, I keep my eye on the ball,
but still I never asked to be a fly on the wall.

And like sometimes dumb crimes blow my mind,
and lord knows I've tried to close my eyes.
But it happened so fast, I keep my eye on the ball,
but still I never asked to be a fly on the wall.

All I wanna' do is go fly a kite or take a hike,
and try and keep myself from takin' a flyin' leap.
There's ringing in my ears...especially at night.
Kaleidoscopic visions of a cocaine cat fight.

People play parlor games behind closed doors.
Secrets are sacred when nobody knows yours.
But somebody does, you forgot about the bottom feeders.
The dirty rotten cheaters and all of the stock readers.

And like sometimes dumb crimes blow my mind,
and lord knows I've tried to close my eyes.
But it happened so fast, I keep my eye on the ball,
but still I never asked to be a fly on the wall.

And like sometimes dumb crimes blow my mind,
and lord knows I've tried to close my eyes.
But it happened so fast, I keep my eye on the ball,
but still I never asked to be a fly on the wall.

Track 2:

the man with the hair would talk real loud

helped me get over my fear of the dark

we were friends of the freaks

may be a manchild
just because his imagination ran wild

enjoy the scenery and the sounds of machinery


the skirts don't hide them

it's disgusting

upon the female species
especially when the weather gets warmer

the hats are worn backwards

and so are the morals 

lots of toilet tissue

the girls are desperate but the boys are even hornier

the girls get goosebumps

we need female, and we read details

the neat part of the meat market

no one needs to be told twice

it's putrid, it's stupid

this thursday

it's a match made in purgatory

it smells like

it's just like dodgeball, but instead of a ball


everybody's uptight

blistering kisses for

someone for you to take advantage of

but the stem is even thornier
it's a match made in purgatory, but what more do you want to know


Track 3:


baseball players
always got trouble on the mind

phone calls and spreadsheets

ovulate on your pillow case

i've accepted challenges, and i've taken many dares
it's hard to make a comeback when you haven't been anywhere


try hards talk

try hards are kinda retarded

modern day martyrs

unique way

they get on my nerves
i refer to them as perverted

hard core rappers

high way robbery

bully with the headphones

try hards don't know how to relax

the try hards just go along for the ride

the try hards jump so 

don't know why


i was raised on a dirt road

down by the river, and watched

never took his hand
even though i had several chances

somebody burned a cross

the town should have given her the crown for a beauty pageant

know how they ridiculed

enough to make anybody feel like a misfit

fear is forever

stigma of incest

she should have been a cover girl, treated like a princess

she tried to hide the scars
her name reminds me of the stars

i saw diamonds divide in the  corners of her eyes

she tried to hide the stars

i saw diamonds divide in the  corners of her eyes

blueberries and bull rushes

a few friends were worried

but she never escaped from under the cloud cover

the story of stella is one that every child knows

she tried to hide the scars
her name reminds me of the stars

she tried to hide the scars
her name reminds me of the stars


Track 4:

science is mouthwash

science is baseball

science is all of the above

with night vision goggles

everyone can join the scientific community

original or scientific, because they are irrelevant

science is fashion
science is spaceships

science is sunsets
science is love
science is all of the above


give me all you got

revolving doors

relaying messages and teaching lessons

offer a few choices

this game is such a gas, a kid wears a t-shirt

and even though we come from a different income group

science is fine arts

science is love
science is all of the above



food, it puts me in a good mood

snacks with an x
food, it puts me in a good mood
nothing works better than hunger pains

i'm hungry

eggs, wheat and flour

delicious fish and brown rice,
but i can't argue with barbecue

i can't say no to risotto

i can manage to do damage to a sandwich

pita bread

else a burito instead

fried rice


please make cheesecake

chocolate chip cookies



french fries, falafel

i'm going to savor the flavor of every mouthful

just feed me


Singles/Guest Appearances/Other

Artist: Buck 65
Title: Pack Animal
Album: Tag of the Times 3
Typed by: DJ Coldcuts

One of the best, all-time top five...

They gave me a long tail and a strong back, manageable adult male,
the ultimate man slash pack animal,
with long black eyelashes and lazer vision ability,
long distance endurance, combined precision and agility.
Built-in suede harness, jock strap saddle system,
available now in stealth mode battle position.
Bulletproof brain stem and interchangable face plate,
removable emotion detection response program.
Tastes great, easy to swallow improved formula,
normally removable wings and weapons sold seperate.
Half rubber, half gelatin, my skeleton is copper-plated,
odd-numbered robot body is coin-operated.
Erasable memory bank, remote controlable choke hold,
replaceable soulder yolk separater.
Second-hand respirator, funky fresh wrist action,
my colorful costume creates the distraction.

Clear a path, keep crackin' the whips,
I'll keep you smilin' and stackin' the chips.
I don't need love, just a kick in the ass.
I'll make you a rug with a picture of your face on it.

Treat him like an animal, forget he's a man.

They parade me around like a goddamn polar bear,
they say I'm demented and I invented the solar flare.
I tap dance in a rap stance, run laps and do the dishes,
and assume like moonlight if it's not too suspicious.
There's not enough sand in the hour glass for romance,
even though I would love to have sex and slow dance.
Oh well, there's work to do, ditches to dig, and a wig to wear,
and even when they don't fit, my heads too big to care.
I remain funny faceded as long as no money's wasted,
orphan gorilla gets silly as soon as the honey's tasted.
I'm dumb in the dirt but my enthusiasm's unbridled,
blind-sided, stunt double, most of my songs are untitled.
Not unless you want trouble, don't front on the frosted flakes,
the spinach it cost to break even, gone before you finish.
Za za,za za, my ass writes the checks
but somebody got to suck the blood when they bite the necks.


Artist: Boom Bip (f/ Buck 65)
Title: The Unthinkable
Album: Seed to Sun

Buck 65:
Box of bones beneath my bed, crow's foot always in my pocket.
Big black circles, shooting pains. Stick a knife into a socket.
Bottle rockets, rubber bands. Through a good book out the window.
Boil water, spill the beans, sit still listen to the wind blow.
Burn the photos, kill the lights. Hold your breath, spy on your neighbors.
Do the tango with a broom, wrap the presents with newspapers.
Fly a kite late at night, talk a walk along the coast.
No matter what, I still can't sleep. Everywhere I still see ghosts.
Selected works of Karl Marx, the greatest hits of Bill Monroe.
Midnight on the stormy deep. Where did all the children go?
Angels on the tops of trees. Baseball in a prison yard.
Lovers in the cemetary. Close your eyes, it isn't hard.
I teach a dog to shake my hand. Draw with my wood burning tool.
I still can't swim to save my life. I learned all I could learn in school.
Wicked witches cast their spells. My heart's been broken more than most.
No matter what, I still can't sleep. Everywhere I still see ghosts.

Pupils dilate, eardrums bleed. Students riot in the square.
Records break but so do bones, there is something evil in the air.
So lock the door and spill your guts, slit your wrists and say you're sorry.
Take the day off, stay in bed. Throw your voice and change your story.
Stranger things have happened captain. Learn the words and make them true.
Play their music backwards. Listen. Even promises break in two.
Pins and needles, freezing pain. We're not there yet, not even close.
No matter what, I still can't sleep. Everywhere I still see ghosts.
Go outside and take your clothes off. Dig a hole and lay down in it.
Swallow hard and make a fist. The world could end at any minute.
So take the train, get right with God. Shoot the stars and smoke some crack.
Pack your bags, put on your shoes. Go far away and don't come back.
Broken glass, razor wire. The T.V. is one but no one's home.
Now everything's the way I like it. Not a sound, I'm all alone.
Inside out and upside down, I bang my head against a post.
No matter what, I still can't sleep. Everywhere I still see ghosts.